


Planned (Unplanned)

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Community: sherlockkink, Humor, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I had planned for this eventuality," Holmes tells him, "and this cupboard featured extensively in said plans."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Planned (Unplanned)

**Author's Note:**

> Silliness and pwp. They asked for closet sexing during a case over at the kink meme.

Watson may have gotten used to the way Holmes causally breaks the law whenever it happens to get in his way, but this doesn't mean he's entirely comfortable with it. So when Holmes decides that the best plan of action is to break into their suspect's home at some insane hour of the night, Watson allows himself to be dragged along with reluctance.

"Holmes, do you really think this is the best way of gaining information? After all, they could very well be at home when we break in."

"I have gone through every step of my plan in great detail, and I find this to be the single best chance we will have." He fiddles with the lock picks, as always managing to make a hash of something he really should be better at by now. "As for the possibility of them being at home, I am counting on it."

"What? Holmes, I swear, I don't know why you do this to me; would it kill you to explain beforehand for once, rather than attempting to give me a heart attack at least once during every case? You are utterly mad."

"Oh, do be quiet, Watson. All I really need you to do is keep watch while I gather information. Simply stand there and alert me if anyone approaches. It should hardly tax your abilities, and it really isn't too much to ask, is it?"

Watson favors Holmes with a glare, but Holmes has had more than his fair share of such glares and is unaffected. Watson closes his eyes and sighs, and knows he will do exactly as Holmes has asked.

The house is dark and silent, and Watson is beginning to think that no one is home after all. Holmes is a few steps ahead of him, searching for something, pulling open door after door but never entering a room. Watson hears the slightest scuff, and pauses, heart pounding loudly enough to obscure any noise.

"Holmes!" he hisses, and again, "Holmes! Someone is coming!" The dark head turns toward him, and now the ring of a step is clearly audible. Holmes grabs his arm and yanks him towards the door he has just opened, which turns out to be a small, dark space: a closet of some sort. They are jammed in, Watson's back against the wall, facing Holmes, who is squirming madly. "Holmes!" he whispers. "Stop moving or they'll notice something."

"I had planned for this eventuality," Holmes tells him, "and this cupboard featured extensively in said plans. However, Watson, the fact remains that you are where I need to be. Come, switch places with me; I need to be able to get at that wall." He pulls at Watson's coat, attempting to turn them around, but the space is too small to maneuver. Watson cannot find his feet in the dark, and he hears a thump as Holmes' foot strikes something and he pitches forward, sending something else clattering to the ground. Watson catches him before he falls, and Holmes is still trying to get around him; Watson bats at him and curses closets and detectives and completly brainless plans. "Be silent, Watson, or you will give away our position," Holmes hisses, and Watson nearly explodes.

"Me? Give away our position? Oh, that's rich. I'm not the one throwing things about…"

Holmes slaps a hand to his mouth that almost pokes him in the eye, silencing him. Watson is just about to retaliate when they hear a louder thud, resonating through the wall. They freeze, and Watson can just make out the gleam of Holmes' eyes as he leans forward, pressing against him, and he breathes "What are you doing?" into the hand covering his mouth. Holmes says nothing in response, but leans forward still more, trying to place his ear against the wall.

There is still too much space, and Holmes hisses to Watson, "Behave for a moment," and presses forward, rising to the balls of his feet, molded tightly against Watson, his head turned to place his ear against the wall over Watson's shoulder, his nose brushing Watson's neck, breath ghosting against his skin.

Watson is feels his skin twitch under Holmes' warm breath, and it is suddenly very hot. He can hardly breathe, like Holmes is forcing all his breath out of him, his heart working too hard, too fast. Holmes starts whispering to him, telling him what he is hearing from the other room, but Watson can't even begin to concentrate because he is being faced with something he didn't even know he wanted, and now he can think of nothing else; his mind is occupied with not rolling his hips upwards, with not turning his head to brush Holmes' lips, with not sliding a hand up to untuck that shirt and not running his hand along skin and muscle and scar tissue, with not tasting this suddenly delicious, delicious man, and before he can even stop this line of thought, Holmes shifts against him, his balance momentarily lost, and Watson finds himself hard and aching.

He can't stop the little noise that escapes him, a guttural inhale that's cut short by desperation, and he feels Holmes go very still against him. He pulls his head back to look at Watson, and the movement causes his hips to shift closer against Watson's, drawing another breath of sound from him, and Holmes' eyes are wide and dark and slightly stunned. "Watson," he whispers, his tone a question, and Watson cannot bear to look at him now.

He closes his eyes, but his lips part against the palm of Holmes' hand. "I…," but cannot say more because Holmes's lips are replacing his hand, and he is kissing him, soft and careful and slow, and tasting him, finally, and Watson is completely unable to help himself, his hand coming up to Holmes' waist. He thinks his palm will leave a brand on Holmes' hip, even through the fabric of the shirt, and Watson realizes that once again, it's _his_ damn shirt. The kiss slides easily into something hotter and wetter and more intense, all thoughts of suspects set aside, until they break apart, gasping into each other's mouth, and Watson thinks they are definitely too loud for this ridiculous little closet. They are pressed together now in a way that has nothing to do with listening at walls, and everything to do with the desire to have skin against skin, and even fully clothed Watson thinks this is the most sensual experience he has ever had.

"That's my shirt," Watson rasps out, and he doesn't even know how he can focus on such things.

Holmes smiles, slow and broad against his lips and says, "A barter then. When we return to Baker Street, I will return your shirt, and I will give you my waistcoat as well, and maybe I'll even throw in my trousers." And Watson thinks he can hardly wait.


End file.
